


Lights Out

by GhostHost



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Breakdown Lives, Character Death, Drug Abuse, Ratchet hates everyone, or something like it, they both switch sides, though he slowly turns into TFP Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-23 03:06:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHost/pseuds/GhostHost
Summary: Knockout craves the attention, the stares. Breakdown would rather people couldn't see him at all.Or, what happens when TFP Knockout meets G1 Breakdown.





	Lights Out

**Author's Note:**

> I've been chipping away at this fic forever, and yet I was still surprised I finished it today haha. 
> 
> Warnings: Drug abuse (we're treating dark energon like a drug here) with nasty long term side effects, general abuse, paranoia/anxiety disorder, character death (the rest of the Stunticons) and Motormaster being a giant ass, etc. If you want a specific warning, do throw a line!

I always feel like somebody's watching me  
So tell me when the lights go out  
Tell me if it's safe now

Lights Out--Virginia to Vegas 

* * *

 

Knockout wanted to hate Earth.

It was covered in things that got in his plating, and being forced to be constantly undercover to avoid being experimented on by the locals was grating. Particularly considering the locals were small, annoying organics.

Ones that couldn’t even race their own vehicles properly, either.

Not, he thought with annoyance as twin engines roared throughout the halls, that some of the Decepticons could control themselves any better.

“Watch where you’re going!” Knockout snarled, as two race-cars whipped past. Neither acknowledged him, too busy shrieking insults and taunts at each other to have even realized he was there.

They were followed by a third race car, this one distracted and humming what sounded like a funeral dirge under his vents.

Honestly, whose bright idea was it to create an MTO combiner?

Stupid question, he knew whose it was.

“Sorry!” A staticky voice whispered. Knockout turned, one optic-ridge raised (Since when had any of the Stunticons ever apologized?) to find the fourth and least known member trotting after his siblings in root mode.

Knockout didn’t bother to give him a response, didn’t even care enough to recall the kids name.

Or at least he didn’t, until the mech turned a corner and was promptly blasted backwards, skidding on his back plate then rolling up, over his shoulders, to land in a moaning pile of limbs at Knockout’s feet.

Cackling echoed in the fallout of the miniature explosion, met a moment later by furious screaming.

Then the gunfire started.

Apparently, Soundwave’s brats had come out to play.

Knockout rolled his optics, briefly debating whether or not his medical oath required him to scan the kid for injuries when, miracle of miracles, the guy rose to his knees. Things having resolved themselves nicely, Knockout took one large step back and went to turn and get out of the hallway before the fighting overtook it, when a wail whipped him back around.

It was coming from the kid.

_‘Shit, he_ is _hurt.’_ Was his first thought, and it was that long-ingrained medic instinct Knockout denied he had that moved him forward, scanning the blue and white racecar for injuries.

Who, as it immediately turned out, was fine. It was the little device in his hands that was totally fragged.  

Secretly relieved, Knockout finished his last scan, the quick kind that he used on the battlefield. He hadn’t gotten anything from the first two--a visual scan and a basic, external scan, so he was mildly surprised when the third did in fact, come up with something.

_‘Internal temperatures rising: patient, in danger of overheating.’_ His HUD read.

That...wasn’t normal.

“No, no, _no.”_ The speedster chanted, horror and terror whipping out of him in waves. “He’s gonna kill me!” Slowly his engine began to shake, a death rattle that put Knockout’s denta on edge.

Then the wail started up again--coming straight from the guy’s engine.

The drama of it all was getting to be too much, even for a diva such as himself. With an annoyed sigh, Knockout dropped his hand to the Firebird’s shoulder _. “Hey,_ easy.”

The kid startled, jerking hard enough away from his hand that he nearly collapsed back on the floor.

_‘Patient vents: overheating. Patient’s internal core temperature: Rising. Danger. Danger. Dan-;_ Knockout shunted the message off, kicking it to where it couldn't announce blatantly obvious things on his HUD. The kid was _clearly_ overheating--in a way that was starting to manifest as steam.

_“Easy,_ Primus!” Knockout muttered, mostly to himself. “I’m Knockout. The medic. _Your_ medic. Remember?” He half wondered if the kid did remember--or if he’d even registered who was talking to him at all. The guy hadn’t once looked at him.

He got a cringing sports car for his efforts.

The terror was still somehow building, completely overtaking the kids field and prickling uncomfortably against Knockout’s.

Slowly, carefully, the medic knelt. “Calm down. Vent.” He demanded, using The Voice. The one every mech knew to obey, unless they wanted to piss off every medic within range.

The shaking had slightly subsided, now moving on to a weird hiccuping sound that threatened to turn back into the terrible screeching. Annoyed that he still could not recall the kids name, Knockout finally accessed his patient files and flipped through until he found the Stunticons.

“Breakdown.” He said, when the condensed file finally appeared on his HUD. “You’re overheating.”

He got a raspy gasp in reply.

“You need to open your vents.” The Medic Voice had never failed him before, but there was a first time for everything. It made this all that much more annoying, but Knockout was committed now. Preferably before things got worse and he had to take the guy back to the medbay--which meant, _ugh,_ work.

Breakdown seemed to be lost elsewhere though, optics still stuck to the stupid, broken device now on the floor. One trembling hand reached out to touch it, the act causing the tremors in his chest to increase.

So Knockout grabbed the hand instead.

He placed it upon his own chest, fighting to cringe at the feel of chipped hands on his (gorgeous, beloved) plating. “Feel how my spark is pulsing? How my vents are cycling? Match yours to it.” He said, purposefully venting in a timed rhythm while Breakdown did just that, the mech’s head bowed, shivers racking his frame.

Removing the annoyance from his tone was impossible but Knockout did the best he could with it. “In. Out. In. Good. Now open your vents.”

A shuddering, raspy noise abruptly filled the air, as Breakdown’s vents kicked back to life, no longer clamped shut. Knockout kept his count up for a minute longer, all the while keeping a watch over the Firebird’s head in case the fight came towards them.

It didn’t.  

By the time Breakdown’s core temperature had lowered to normal, somebody had managed to either stop the fight dead, or shoo it along, and either way, the hallway was disturbingly empty.

At least it made it easier to hear when the mech’s venting finally evened out.

“There, pretty bot. You’re all set.” Knockout said finally, slowly rising. Manners would have him sticking a hand out to help his patient up but Knockout had just done his claws the day before, and he’d already allowed too much touching. Particularly from someone with that _awful_ white paint.

“Thanks.” The kid mumbled, slowly rising to his pedes, scooping the broken device up as he went.

He wasn’t looking, but Knockout winked anyway. “Anytime.”

They parted ways, with Knockout marking the entire thing down as his One Good Deed of the month.

Now he could rob Starscream’s paint stores and not feel remotely guilt about it.

xXx

That anytime had _not_ been serious. It had been something charming to say, something Knockout always said. It was a part of his personality.

Breakdown apparently, did not know that. Or if he did, he didn’t care, because now he wouldn’t leave Knockout the frag alone.

It’d be annoying, if the mech wasn’t so quiet.

“I--I don’t like people looking at me.” He said once, randomly. He’d scampered into Knockout’s habsuit like some sort of Earth rodent, and was now hunched over in the chair that looked suspiciously like the missing one from the medbay.

It was Hook’s favorite and had mysteriously gone missing a vorn ago--ironically, the same vorn Knockout decided he wanted a vanity.

Knockout snorted, admiring himself in his mirror. “Trust me kid, when I’m around, no one’s looking at _you.”_ He’d meant it as an insult but the sheer relief that statement had brought made him pause.

He was no stranger to self hatred. Was a fan of it even, and in the past had done his best to encourage it. Self loathing, the need and desire to change yourself, were the basic emotions his business had thrived on. That was the motivator getting mechs into his shop before the war--with the desire to stay beautiful keeping them there.

Knockout’s personality was to hen peck, chiseling a mechs insecurities and building on that to make money. But also, to make art.

He thought it was a fair trade. The mechs he transformed truly did look stunning, after he was done with them. In a way only he could make them shine. The things he said were never lies, just observations. Truths. They were the things mechs said about themselves, things Knockout could fix.

Who was he to deny them what they already knew? Or worse--deny that he could change them.

But Breakdown? Breakdown was _made_ of insecurities, and not the kind even Knockout was comfortable capitalizing on. His idiotic brothers did nothing to help, particularly not the piece of work that was Motormaster. If anything, they were doing plenty more damage themselves. The entire team was a mess, if not a somewhat attractive mess.

So many beautiful race car frames, wasted.

It’d be pathetic if Breakdown wasn’t clearly so desperate to just have a place to be left alone--and hungry for at least one person to look at him positively.(Whether or not he knew that was up in the air but it was clear, in the way he reacted the handful of times Knockout paid him a compliment. Or rather, clear in the way he reacted when he hadn’t realized Knockout’s first few compliments had been sarcastic, and Knockout had been forced to play it straight once he’d seen the effect it had.)

Knockout couldn’t find it in him to kick the kid out, or tell him to scram.

Perhaps it was the way the mech’s optics hooked on Knockout’s plating, but skittered away when he tried to lock gazes. Perhaps it was the way he’d learned to anticipate Knockout’s needs, handing him warmed cubes of energon and rags.  The way he shadowed him, using the medic as a shield and hiding away in the infirmary (the same one Hook vacated the second the shift changed, regardless of whether or not Knockout was there.)

Whatever it was, it held the medic’s temper more times than he cared to admit, the slashing comments dying on his glossa.

_I could make you prettier. Better. Brighter._ Was the pitch he’d sold to all his “friends”, (sometimes, even, at a truly gracious discount.) With Breakdown, there was blatant room for improvements, starting with that awful, _horrific,_ paint job!-He just...couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Any of it.

So he huffed and grumbled, and went on and on about how _amazing_ he was to the mech, as if to make up for it all.

Most importantly though, he tried to ignore how much more relaxed Breakdown became in his presence. How serene and calm the normal wreck of a race car turned into. Or how his humor and Knockout’s disturbingly aligned.

Perhaps, deep down, in the place that sometimes doubted Knockout’s position as a Decepticon, he didn’t want to take that peace away.

The kid clearly needed it--and to pick at him, tell him what all else was wrong with him, was to destroy whatever progress Breakdown had made.

Knockout could do a lot of vicious, underhanded things--but he couldn’t do that.

So he choked it all down. Not entirely, not enough to noticeably change his personality but--enough to not be quite as acidic with Breakdown as he was with others. Enough to allow the mech to hang around. It was a change only he noticed, but it was indeed, a change.

Or, if you’re a romantic, which Knockout was, a beginning.

xXx

A stupid amount of months later, a frantic ping to his comm matched the pounding on the door and Knockout threw it open with as much disdain as he could.

“What--” He started, with a perfected (beautifully staged) snarl, only to be nearly bowled over as Breakdown burst past him into the room.

“Close the door, close the door, _closethedoor--!_ ” The mech chanted, optics round and nearly white from panic. The fact he wasn’t trying to hide them bothered Knockout more than the level of fear and panic that radiated off the smaller mech and Knockout did as instructed, closing and locking his hab door.

“What happened?” He demanded, as Breakdown shuddered through a vent.

The younger mech didn’t answer verbally, instead shaking his head and backing up until his spine struts hit the wall. From there he slid down, curling in on himself, optics now locked on the door. His frame shook, his engine making sounds that marked the beginning of his infamous ability. A brief attempt was made to do the deep vents Knockout forced him to practice, but even an idiot could see it wasn’t working.

It had been a long time since it hadn’t worked, when Knockout himself was present.

_Primus._

“Hey.” Knockout said, with none of his usual ego. “Hey. Look at me.”

The fact that Breakdown did scared him more than anything else had.

Knockout kneeled slowly, letting one hand stretch out. “You’re alright.” He said softly, if firmly. “What happened?”

“He’s coming.” Breakdown whispered, frame beginning to shake. Knockout kept his hand out, then snapped impatiently when the kid didn’t seem to see it.

Breakdown startled, then grabbed Knockout’s hand, squeezing it like a lifeline.

From there he was able to draw Breakdown to him, making sure his spark pulses were calm. As he’d been training the speedster to do, Breakdown automatically placed his free hand against Knockout’s chest, carefully feeling the pulses so he could time his own to the medics.

“Motormaster?” He guessed, because few things could get Breakdown so riled up.

A shaky nod was his answer.

“I’ll deal with him.”

“You can’t--Knockout, _no!”_  Breakdown said, forceful enough to startle both of them.  “He’ll hurt you.” He added, seemingly embarrassed at his own outburst but too scared to care.

“I can’t let him hurt you.” He added, still staring directly into Knockout’s optics.

The medic could count on one hand how many times that had happened.

“Unfortunately for the both of us, I’m rather against him hurting _you._ ” Knockout said, dropping Breakdown’s hand and rising to face the door.

Something that had been happening more and more often, as of late. Motormaster was clearly out of control, and despite several hissed conversations with Starscream, nothing was being done about it.

It was coming to the point where Knockout was about to bring his concerns to Megatron himself, despite all of Starscream’s warnings that their Lord and leader wouldn’t care.

“We made them so they can destroy things and distract the Autobots.” The seeker had snarled, the last time they had this argument. “So long as they’re doing that, and so long as Motormaster doesn’t offline one of his siblings, _he_ won’t care.”  ‘He’ Being sneered with enough fire and hatred to make the medic pause.

“Starscream.” Knockout said instantly, because even though Starscream was always upset these days the way his field was teetering that day, the way he was leaning more on his left leg than the right as though favoring it…“Do you need--”

“No.” The seeker spat, as if to cut off the very idea that he needed any kind of help. “Keep your fat fingers to yourself.”

Knockout gasped like a sorority girl that’d been told her outfit didn’t match, but otherwise let the conversation be turned away from the seekers own health.

He didn’t forget about it though.

Just as he didn’t forget that Motormaster was blatantly spinning out of control.

Banging interrupted his thoughts, as the mech of the moment finally arrived.

“I know you’re in there!” Roared Motormaster, bashing the door so hard it bent inwards. “You can’t hide from me!”

Knockout strode forward hands on his hips. He’d intended to keep Breakdown behind him knowing the mech felt safer that way, and was slightly surprised when the younger mech abruptly shoved to his pedes as well.

“Motormaster, darling, my _door.”_ Knockout said, turning the charm up to a hundred. Throughout the years, he’d discovered that it worked just as well as any weapon on a certain kind of mech and Motormaster, who had never been flirted with in his life (or really, dealt with in a way that didn’t somehow involve violence or threats thereof) never quite knew what to do when Knockout turned it on him.

“Fuck your door! Hand me my brother!”

“Well now that would truly be a sight to see.” Knockout had lowered his voice just enough that Motormaster had to stop his horrid banging to hear the end of that sentence--which had been the goal. “What makes you think any of your brothers are here?”

“Because I’m bonded to them you fucking oversized twink!”

Knockout didn’t know what a twink was, but it sounded an awful lot like a slur in that moment, and he decided to react accordingly, optics narrowing.

Except Breakdown, fury abruptly roaring through his terrified field, beat him to it.

_“Fuck off.”_

Knockout blinked, shocked, as Breakdown stepped forward, putting himself shoulder to shoulder with Knockout.

“What did you just say?” Motormaster asked, voice deadly quiet.

“You heard me.” Breakdown snapped, and Knockout had to hand it to him, his voice was strong even if it shook, betraying nothing of the fear he could still feel. “I’ll talk to you when you calm down. Until then you can go scream at someone else.”

Motormaster’s deep, bass engine roared in outrage. “You can’t hide in there forever, _glitch._ You’ll have to come out and then I’ll make you eat those words!”

“Not if I comm Astrotrain and tell him who stole all his high grade.” Breakdown shot back.

That was a threat that sent a chill down Knockout’s spinal strut. Astrotrain’s stash had gone missing two weeks ago and the shuttle was still upset about it. He’d put Swindle through a wall just the other day when someone suggested it might have been the Jeep.

It worked as intended, though the Stunticon’s leader snarled a number of threats and insults before he finally gave up.

The door shook as Motormaster stormed off, massive pedes thundering down the halls. When they could no longer hear it, Knockout turned--and clapped.

“Very well done.” He purred.

Breakdown’s face heated, his optics sinking off to the side. “Yeah, well. You said it last time. I can’t just let him run over me. “

“Mmm. So long as you stay safe doing it, pretty mech.” Knockout agreed, slowly reaching one hand out to pet his shadow’s shoulder. Breakdown leaned ever so slightly into the touch.  “Why don’t you stay here tonight? Give him some time to cool off, and us time to drink my own stash of high grade.”

It was hard to tell, but he was certain Breakdown gave him a ghost of a smile for it.

 

xXx

MTOs were not human children. Nor were they sparklings.

They were their own little sub-category of Cybertronian, and at one time, they had been considered inferior.

Some people thought they still were.

Knockout couldn’t say he hadn’t used that a time or two, for his business. MTOs hadn’t been allowed in a number of establishments until the first round of strikes and riots started, and Knockout, ever the opportunist, had seen a need he could easily fulfill.

For a price.

Turning one person into another though still involved you seeing them as people, even if you were sparkless about how much you charged for it.

In line with that thought--there were things one did not tolerate. There were times when lines were crossed and Knockout, forever aware of the boundaries he’d created, had to enforce them.

“I think you freaked out the Coneheads.” Breakdown muttered, head tucked into Knockout’s shoulder. Somehow, Breakdown hiding in Knockout’s room a time or two had turned into staying over more often than not, with them sharing the berth despite Knockout’s numerous, paint-based complaints.

The younger mech had gotten very good with a buffer because of it.

“I think they forgot what combat medic means.”  Knockout sniffed, scrubbing the remnants of blue paint off his fingers. The marks down Dirge’s face were worth it, but he’d gotten a touch overexcited and hit part of the seeker’s obnoxiously colored helm. The resulting blue transfers were being _very_ stubborn.

“What’d they even say to piss you off?” Breakdown asked. He had caught the tail end of the fight, which was the part where Knockout had drawn his saws on the other two Coneheads. Both of which had backed off rather quickly when they saw how well the red mech wielded them.

Knockout considered his claws. “They were mocking my paint job.” He lied, after a long, internal debate.

Breakdown made a horrid noise through his vents that Knockout had come to learn was a mimicry of a human snort. “That was dumb of them.”

“Incredibly.” Knockout agreed, finally putting the cloth down. “They won’t be doing it again.”

No one would.

xXx

“Enough!” Megatron roared, surged to his pedes.”I am tired of your arguments!”

Knockout and Starscream both froze, turning towards their Lord.

“Sir,” Knockout started, after sending a look to Starscream, “We were not argue--”

“If you value your life Knockout, you’ll stop talking.” Megatron rumbled, voice dangerous. “Get out. Both of you. Come back when you have a real plan, instead of wasting my time with this _drivel.”_

Stunned to silence, Knockout could only obey.

They had been talking about a plan. Calmly, even.

Megatron had snapped out of nowhere.

_::There’s something wrong with him.::_ He sent over a private, personal comm channel, two seconds after they both managed to escape their leader’s room.

_::Nice of you to notice.::_ Starscream spat, storming down a hall.

_::I’m aware he’s been off for a while but this--Starscream this is serious.::_ He tried, lengthening his stride to keep up with the seekers.

_::It’s_ always _been serious.:_ : Starscream said, spinning on a heel to pin Knockout with a glare. _::You just never realized it.::_

The horrifying thing was that Knockout knew he was right.

xXx

“With all do respect my Lord, Hook is a moron who wouldn’t understand the scan results of a field drone.” Knockout  wheedled. This was his fourth attempt at this conversation over a number of weeks, and this time he was certain he knew the right words to say to get what he wanted. “I want to make sure the dark energon is working at maximum capacity for you--and that it’s not hindered by those who don’t know what they’re looking for.”

Lies, of course. Knockout had only just figured out what dark energon even was--and what Megatron was supposedly using it for. The entire operation to retrieve and create it had taken place before he’d been called to serve on the Nemesis, and now that he knew his leader was ingesting it, he was more determined than ever to scan Megatron himself.

The trick was just convincing Megatron to agree to it.

Overly bright optics narrowed at him, a sneer painted on the grey mech’s face. It looked negative, and Knockout quickly added to his argument before Megatron could threaten him.

“I might even be able to improve it.” He lied again. Fear--of Megatron both finding out what he truly wanted the scans for, and the fear of a current, negative reaction fluttered in his tank, waiting for the reaction.

The sneer went away, replaced by an unhinged, but considering one.

“Fine.” Megatron said, after a painfully long moment. “Get it over with.”

Bowing gratefully, Knockout began.

xXx

This was wrong.

This was all _wrong._

He still didn’t want to believe the results. He’d retried the test, several times over, but every single one came back the same way.

No matter how hard he tried, there was no denying it.

Unless something drastic happened, the war was over.

Knockout didn’t have time to do anything at all, let alone something drastic. Mere hours after he had finally accepted his new reality, an alarm ripping through the Nemesis, calling them all to battle.

Now he was in the thick of it, and desperately trying to convince Soundwave to call a retreat.

“You idiot!” He yelled, dodging laserfire, “Can’t you see Megatron won’t call it himself!?”

Soundwave ignored him, as he had been for the entire battle.

A boom cut through the regular sounds of battle, and Knockout turned just in time to watch as Starscream was abruptly taken out of the sky, shot down by what appeared to have been _Megatron’s_ _cannon._

They were losing. They had been losing, were losing bad enough that Knockout had already pulled three different ‘Cons to the side of the field for immediate repairs and spammed Hook with requests to get his aft over here already.

He’d waded in again once his current patient--a dazed Thundercracker-- had stabilized, to try and help a now heavily bleeding Soundwave take out the human’s stupid new weapons.

Stupid, new, highly effective, energy weapons.

::What are you doing!?:: Knockout shouted, over the general comm-line. ::We don’t have enough supplies as it is without you adding more casualties to the pile!::

Soundwave didn’t respond--but their leader did. The deranged snarl that came out of Megatron sounded horrific, and if Knockout hadn’t already just checked on his Lord he would have assumed the guy was dying from that response.

The ground shook, rattling all the combatants as Superion brought Menasor to it’s knees. The

Con combiner struggled up, only to be hit, again and again, sparks raining down from Superion’s blows.

Knockout knew better than to get close to a combiner brawl, but that didn’t stop him from trying to take out the Autobot Combiner’s support.

He wasn’t fast enough.

Superion abruptly jumped back, and then to the side. Seconds later Menasor shoved itself to it’s feet, only to catch what appeared to be a human operated energy cannon blast, directly to the chest.

The Decepticons could only watch the results.

Bodies rained down, hitting the ground with disturbing thumps and Knockout was already moving, already tracking the pile of metal that Breakdown had turned into.

He went straight to work upon reaching the kid, time seeming to both stop and speed up all at once. He didn’t care, nor did he care to defend himself from the chaos that surrounded him. Knockout only stopped when his processor finally caught up to the damage laid before--and around-- him.

Reality struck, in the form of a number of grey bodies.

Breakdown--and Knockout himself, had two options from this point.

One was death, and that was entirely utterly unacceptable.

Which meant the other….

The other would have to do.

Knockout didn’t even think that hard on it, something that would surprise him later. He just--reacted. Shifted his own chest plates aside taking a moment to establish a quick comm connection before he went to work.

“You owe me a favor.” He spat into it, the second it established. “I’m calling it in. Now.”

He waited two beats for a reply before uncovering his spark, and slamming his and Breakdowns chests together.

xXx

“You did _what!?”_ Ratchet howled, and it was that combination of furious and panicked that had First Aid setting things up before even seeing the chaos coming towards him. He had the IV stands and kits out before the door opened, syringes, scalpels, spark-monitors and more at the ready.

He was thankful for it a moment later when the CMO came charging in. He was followed closely by a mech that kind of looked like Knockout and was proven to _be_ Knockout when the Decepticon snapped back.

“His entire gestalt died! He was seizing from spark failure when I found him!”

Neither acknowledged First Aid or his dropped jaw.

The mech slung over Knockout’s shoulder was gently placed onto the berth First Aid had prepared, Ratchet helping with the transfer. They moved in tandem, arguing as they spun about each other in a way only medics seemed to be able to master.

“So you decided the only option was to _bond_ with him!?” Ratchet was both yelling and throwing things--things Knockout was catching easily and then using.

Like they’d practiced it.

First Aid watched, fascinated, as one such thing sailed towards the‘’Cons head, thrown with obvious venom, only to be caught in Knockout’s waiting hand. The same hand that had been flipping Ratchet off two seconds prior. “Yes, because it _was_ the only option!”

One red arm flicked through a transformation and Aid’s vents caught when a saw blade sprung to life. It wasn’t turned on Ratchet though--instead it was used as it was intended, cutting through some of the twisted carnage on the dying mech’s chest.

More yelling, as the two medics worked around each other. It was easy to get lost, to misunderstand the instant way the two of them knew who was doing what. Distracting too--First Aid forgot entirely what he was supposed to be doing until a flying wrench reminded him.

“Coolant!” Ratchet barked and he sprang into action, hustling to deliver the needed items.

The mess of a mech on the table slowly took the form of a Stunticon. It took him a while to figure it out, especially since First Aid didn’t typically see battle with the individual members of ‘Con combiners. He’d heard through the comms that something unplanned had happened with Menasor though, and wasn’t exactly surprised when Breakdown was finally revealed.

What was surprising was the clear spark pulse. First Aid hadn’t thought that possible-- that a single gestalt member could survive the deaths of the rest. Nevermind survive  the insane amount of damage he had taken. It took Ratchet and Knockout combined the better part of three hours just to get the Stunticon stable, and another two to shape him into an actual person rather than a solid chunk of charred, mangled metal.

During that time Jazz had slipped in through the doors. He quietly haunted an out of the way corner, leaning against the wall and watching the action. A few others had drifted in but Ratchet’s rabid snarling (and terrifyingly good aim) had driven them back out. Knockout, surprisingly, hadn’t made an attempt to shoo anyone away, but with the ‘Con so focused on the patient on the table ‘Aid wouldn’t have been surprised if he had even known others were in the room with the medics.

Jazz was a nice mech but he was also scary as the pit when he chose to be and for that reason First Aid focused on the tasks demanded of him instead of challenging Jazz’s right to be there–but still, his processor wandered.

Jazz was head of Specs Ops–something that took a while for most of the younger mechs to learn.

Ratchet had clearly welcomed Knockout with open arms.

What if’s chased each other around–until, finally, everything settled down, and First Aid felt safe enough to approach the red ‘Con.

“Are you a double agent?” He asked, curious. He’d never heard anything about double agents before, but then, he wasn’t really involved in anything outside the medbay and his own combiner team.  It would make sense though–especially it Jazz was here and Knockout was running around free.

Ratchet made one of his noises. The kind that said he doubted your intelligence.  “No, he’s just an idiot.”

Optics rolled, but Knockout didn’t slow down, Instead he pulled a small drive from his subspace and tossed it to Ratchet.

“Pay close attention to the frontal processing unit.” He said, as if he hadn’t just completed a marathon procedure.

“What am I looking for?” Ratchet demanded, energy levels exactly the same, pulling a tablet from seemingly nowhere and plugging the drive in.

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

Silence stretched for a moment, only to be broken by a quiet curse.

Then a louder one.

And a _much_ louder one.

“You’re positive this is accurate?” Ratchet asked, once he’d exhausted six different human languages and two Cybertronian ones.

“I pulled that data myself, three days ago.” Knockout said, coming up to look over Ratchet’s shoulder at the tablet. Ratchet, amazingly, let him. “Ran the diagnostics four separate times.”

“You never caught it before?” That was accusatory, and Knockout reacted accordingly, field smacking Ratchet’s in a reprimand.

“I never _ran it_ before. I don’t usually work on _Him.”_

No one had to guess who “him” was. First Aid could practically see the capitol letters

They both stared at the screens for a long moment. Something unspoken went between the two of them, made solid when they both turned to face the other with a shared with a look.

‘Aid thought it might have been that Knockout would’ve done something--said something, earlier, if he had known.

“I used this and backtracked to where it must have started affecting him, and compared it to some of our...odder, orders. They match up.”

Ratchet flicked through the datapad, optics darting over whatever was presented there. “How long?”

He got a flat glare for that one. “You _can_ see that damage, right? How long do you think it was?”

First Aid had been trying to carefully clean his way ‘round so that he could see the datapad--and thus, see who the supposed patient was--but Jazz proved himself to be the better extrapolator.

“An’ this is why you’re defecting?” Jazz spoke up, startling the two medics. “Good ol’ Megs is sick?”

Knockout turned to him. “No, I am defecting because my leader hasn’t made a sane decision since the poisoned energon he started chugging chewed literal holes in his processor.” His mouth slashed downwards, stance defiant.

“It is clear I have been working for someone who can--and is now, being classified, by _me,_ as insane. The area affected is his judgement and reasoning centers. Parts of which are entirely _gone._ With it, is the entire Decepticon Cause--and any chance at a victory.” His vents sighed, and his gaze drifted downwards for a moment to look at Breakdown.

“I--we, are picking the winning side. _That_ is why we’re defecting.”

“You think we’re gonna take you? Just like that?” Jazz asked. His tone was still light, playful--but ‘Aid had learned how deceiving that could be.

How people like Jazz used it as a weapon.

Knockout dismissed it entirely with a wave of his hand. “Of course you will, there’s a medic shortage.” He scoffed, as though the very thought of rejection was stupid.

“We don’t know you. We don’t know if you’re even a good medic.” Jazz countered, and got a haughty laugh for his efforts.

“Oh _please_ ,” Knockout said, arms finally dropping to his sides as he leaned against the berth holding Breakdown. “I’m one of the best. Better than yours--in surgery at least.” He added the last part, after cutting another glance at Breakdown. “You may not know me but Ratchet does. He’ll vouch for me.”

That got a reaction.

“That so Ratch?” Jazz asked, turning to the CMO.

“Knockout,” Ratchet said with a sigh, throwing himself down in a chair. “--is a giant pit faced asshole. But he is ethical, and talented-- when his ego doesn’t get in his way. He is also right.” The last part was said begrudgingly, and Aid wasn’t sure if his boss was talking about the medic shortage or Knockout being a better surgeon.

“Always am.” A finger flicked down, pointing to the downed Stunticon. “He comes with me. We’re a package deal.”

Jazz hummed. “He gonna agree to that?”

“Of course.”

It wasn’t as easy as that–First Aid knew it wasn’t–but it was apparently, satisfactory enough for now.

He didn’t know what was to come later.

xXx

A handful of days later, and things were--going. First Aid couldn’t say if it was going good or bad, just that it was.

Particularly when it came to Breakdown’s status.

They’d all been prepared for the worst when the last remaining Stunticon had woken up, and been shocked to find that he was, for all appearances, rather calm about it all.

“I don’t get it.” First Aid said, when it became too much to keep inside. “His body is practically destroyed and his team--” The younger medic trailed off, unable to say the word ‘dead.’ Not even about a team that had been his enemy. To think of one lone survivor out of a combiner team forced unwanted thoughts of himself being the lone survivor out of his own brothers and that was something First Aid found he couldn’t tolerate.

The very idea gave him endless nightmares, but Breakdown wasn’t the completely useless lump of metal First Aid would have been, in his place. Certainly he was both a lump and rather useless, considering his condition--but he wasn't _acting_ like it.  

“He’s relieved.” Ratchet told him gently. “His team wasn’t like your team and his life…” The elder medic trailed off, watching as Knockout preened over something Breakdown had said. “Knockout may very well have been the only good thing in it.”

It was a hard thing to accept but...looking at how Breakdown acted with Knockout, ‘Aid could only agree.

He wasn’t just relieved. He was _happy._

They both were.

:Bonus:

 

“You want me to _add_ bulk?” Knockout gasped, immediately offended, but calmed when Breakdown nodded.

“I can’t do anything as I am.” Breakdown said, using his only movable hand to gesture to himself. “I don’t need to be pretty, or even be a race car. What I need is to be able to defend you.”

Knockout found himself struck speechless.

“I don’t ever want to be in the situation I was in ever again. You're bonded to me now--and I want that to mean something. I want to be worthy of that.”

“You were already worthy of it.” Knockout muttered.

For the first time in a while, their eyes met.

“Can I…?” Breakdown asked quietly, pushing the rest of his question brazenly through the bond, already so different from how he’d been before. 

“Yes.” Knockout murmured, leaning down. “Always.” They kissed hard, their union natural.

Somewhere in the corner, First Aid gagged.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Random but; I'm currently considering running a TF fanfiction contest. I've got a few judges interested, along with a a few people willing to chip in prizes (we haven't yet decided if prizes will be physical trophies, money, art, or all three.) We're currently deciding what kind of contest to run (a prompt based one, crack or rare pair, etc.) 
> 
> If anyone's interested hmu on tumblr! My tumblr's Gh00stH00st. : D


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